The Goat

      Have you met my pet goat?  His name is Wrigley, and his middle name is Annihilator.  He likes to eat anything and everything he can get his teeth on, and trust me, NOTHING is off limits.  I’ve bought this little shit more chew toys than you would ever believe, yet he still seems to prefer all of the things which he’s NOT supposed to chew. You may have noticed in the above picture that even though he has two dog toys right within his reach, he is instead nibbling on a shoe. Yep, this has become the story of my life since this four-legged fool’s come into my world.  

     Everybody warns you when you get a new puppy that there will be lots and lots of munching and crunching going on.  You think you can handle it because you think it can’t possibly be all THAT bad.  And then you quickly find out how very very wrong you were.  This dog has ripped holes in multiple pairs of pants, countless socks, several of my daughter’s dresses, and the mother of all mothers — my warmest North Face coat.  This last act of destruction occurred yesterday when I was trying to let him run around the backyard in the snow.  He was so wound up that he jumped up, grabbed a part of my coat and did this:

You will notice that the down feathers are now coming out of my extremely essential Chicago winter weather gear.  You will also notice that this large rip just so happens to be located far from an actual seam, making it impossible to repair.  And did I mention that the windchill is -20 here today?  You can probably imagine how happy I am about this on a bitterly cold day like today.  

     The goat doesn’t just stop at clothing, either.  Oh, no — he also likes to chew rugs and the runner on our stairs.  He works and works until he gets one loose string and then he goes to town unraveling it. This is what he did to the rug by the back door:

Doesn’t it look beautiful?  Believe me, I’ve tried like hell to keep him from gnawing away at this freaking thing until I’m blue in the face. You would think that there’s gotta be some way to keep him from doing this, right? Well, I’ve been told by multiple people to try spraying Bitter Apple on the things he chews, so of course I went right out and bought some of this supposed cure-all solution.  And wouldn’t you know?  The damn dog actually likes the taste of this nasty ass stuff!  And I know for a fact that it tastes like absolute shit because I accidentally got some of it on my tongue when I sprayed it, and I about tossed my cookies.  

     By far the most amount of damaged inflicted by this little maniac has been on our poor poor kitchen chairs.  They are literally on their last leg from all the gnawing they’ve had to endure.  It has been damn near impossible to keep the dog away from them.  It’s like trying to keep flies off a pile of poo.  The worst one of the four victims now looks like this:

My daughter has snagged more than one pair of her tights on this wreck of a mess.  I have no doubt that pretty soon, we will find ourselves sitting right on the damn floor because our asses are going to fall straight through the seat one day when we least expect it. Maybe this is all part of the goat’s grand master plan so that he can have a better crack at our food.

     I’m pretty close to putting a friggin’ muzzle on the beast because little by little he’s destroying our entire house.  How on earth am I supposed to co-exist with a creature who doesn’t understand or appreciate the value of my Ugg slippers?  I swear we’re all gonna be naked with no furniture whatsoever if he keeps this up.  And best believe, if that does, in fact, happen, I’ll take my birthday suit-clad self and march him straight back to the mountain with all the other billy goats for a full refund.

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Doggy Style

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     If you’ve been following my blog, you are well aware of the furry little fiend in our house who likes to chew on just about everything in site, including body parts. We’ve spent a crap ton of money buying a bazillion different dog toys for him to chomp on, but it seems he is very particular about which ones really appeal to him.  After many hours of nibbling and gnawing, his top choices have become a stuffed polar bear named Betty and a rawhide type thing called a Bully Stick. 

     When we first brought him home from the breeder, he was not a big fan of his crate.  He’d whine and cry and raise all kinds of hell trying to persuade us to let him out of there.  I decided he might like to have a little snuggle buddy, so I asked my daughter if we could give him one of her thousands of stuffed animals.  She hemmed and hawed over this decision, but she eventually determined that she was willing to part with her big, white polar bear.  And so began the love story between Betty the bear and Wrigley the demon dog.  

     It took a while for Wrigley to really warm up to Betty.  At first, she just kinda served as a pillow for him to rest his head.  We’d glance over at his crate and find him nestled in there with his head propped right across Betty’s.  Little by little, they progressed into full-on spooning.  Betty must be one hell of a spooner too, cause any time I’d take her out to clean the crate, she wreaked of dog.  The cuddle fest continued like this until one day when Wrigley decided to drag Betty out for some open air action.

     It was around this time that Wrigley decided to make Betty his bitch. He’d take her in his mouth and run crazy wild circles around the family room, stopping only to shake the tar out of her. He’d throw her on the ground and stand on top of the poor thing as if to say, “Yeah, who’s your daddy?”  And then one day last weekend, Wrigley figured out how to hump. My husband thought it was the funniest thing ever and even took pictures of the two little lovebirds. He even tried to recreate the mood so that Wrigley could show off his newfound skill to me.  (I was not as impressed.) And I gotta say that Betty took it all like a freaking trooper too with her crunchy hair and filthy stank.  Unfortunately, though, the dog trainer nipped that in the bud.  She said to correct that behavior immediately or else deal with him going to town on anything with a leg in the near-distant future.  I think that my husband was secretly disappointed that the canine peep show had to be shut down.

     Wrigley’s other favorite chew toy is something called a Bully Stick, which looks like a long,brownish-colored rawhide bone.  He loves chewing the crap out of this thing, so I ended up buying him another one.  We had these sticks lying around our floor for an entire week before I learned what they are actually made of.  Turns out they are dried bull’s penises!  I kid you not!  I may have thrown up a little in my mouth when I learned that I had been stepping over cow peckers all week.  So now, it has become a big joke around here.  The kids will tell Wrigley, “Here, chew on your peeper, Wrigley.”  And when he starts to bite us, my husband and I will tell him, “Go find your dick, Wrigley.”

     So, it seems that Wrigley is in his experimental phase.  On the one hand, he likes to get down and dirty with Betty, and on the other, he likes to nosh away on cattle dongs.  I feel like we have a PG-13 puppy in our midst, and we need to start shielding our innocent little audience member’s eyes.  Otherwise, we may have to explain the old birds and the bees much earlier than we thought.

Dog Days of Training

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      Am I awake or asleep?  I’m not really sure lately since they feel kind of the same. My days have turned into a complete blur now that we’ve added this furry little creature to our mix.  I feel like I have literally just been going through the motions trying to keep myself from collapsing on the sidewalk.  The hubs has been oh so conveniently out of town this week, so I have been on my own to drive the crazy train that is my life.  And best believe me when I say that I am barely hanging on by a string.

     It is truly like we have a newborn baby in our house again.  I was perfectly happy to be well past that stage in parenting because I’ve kinda grown attached to my sleep these days.  However, lately I have been awakened multiple times a night EVERY STINKIN’ NIGHT by what sounds like a squealing pig being transformed into bacon.  I honestly feel like I no sooner close my eyes than I have to pry them open and take said “pig” out to pee. And as soon as I return him back to his crate, I get another encore presentation of this ear-piercing protest. All of this new morning chaos has the added bonus of my kids now waking up even earlier than normal.

      I then get to juggle the kids trying to play with the puppy who only wants to bite anything and anyone in his path with his razor-sharp little teeth, all while making sure that he doesn’t decide to pop a squat and diddle on the carpet somewhere. Naturally, the kids get upset when he nips them with his little fangs (those suckers hurt like a mother!), and I only can catch him about eight times out of ten from peeing on the sly.  Our morning routine was crazy enough without throwing a wild little beast into the mix, and now, it’s flat-out batshit nutty around here.

     Yesterday, I was so crazed trying to get the kids out the door for school, that I didn’t even realize until almost three in the afternoon that I was still wearing the same tank top that I had slept in the night before.  I did somehow manage to throw on a bra, because, you know, I’m classy like that.  I just literally have not had time to do anything.  I thought I had the world’s smallest bladder, but apparently, this dog has me beat.  He has to constantly be taken outside to pee, so any errands I run have to be completed within two hours time.

     Then there’s the whole feeding issue.  He must still be all freaked out by a new environment because he’s not all that jazzed about eating his food.  The breeder suggested we mix in a little bit of yogurt or cottage cheese to try to tempt him, which I’ve tried doing just to get him to hurry up and eat the damn stuff.  I’ve got places to go and people to see!  So, you can only imagine how happy I was to come home yesterday afternoon to find a crate full of barf as a result of the cottage cheese experiment.  

     And since poop scooping was not really part of my physical therapy plan, my back is totally taking a beating from having to bend down so much.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pick up mushy puppy turds from the grass? Let’s just say that we very well may have some bald spots in our yard now. And I learned the hard way that I need to take a flashlight with me when I take him out at the ass-crack of dawn because I will otherwise find myself on a rather shitty scavenger hunt trying to hunt down all the tiny logs he dropped in the dark.    

     And I’ve gotta wonder if my neighbors REALLY want me to tell them when they ask me how it’s going.  The extreme look of exhaustion on my face should be a tip-off that they might just get an ear full if they do, in fact, ask.  I find myself envious of people who have older dogs who seem to be more chill.  I wish we could fast-forward through all this beginning insanity and get to the point where we can actually enjoy the dog.  In the meantime, I’m thinking about asking ours if I can borrow his crate for a while — I could really use a dark little place to hide away and snooze.  And I promise that I won’t even pee in it.